All these books are published in Heaven.
All these books are published in Heaven.
I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.
My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.
The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.
Ultimately Warhol's private moral reference was to the supreme kitsch of the Catholic church.
Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.
No monster vibration, no snake universe hallucinations. Many tiny jeweled violet flowers along the path of a living brook that looked like Blake's illustration for a canal in grassy Eden huge Pacific watery shore, Orlovsky dancing naked like Shiva long-haired before giant green waves, titanic cliffs that Wordsworth mentioned in his own Sublime, great yellow sun veiled with mist hanging over the planet's oceanic horizon. No harm.
Poets are Damned... but See with the Eyes of Angels.
Who weeps for the pain?
How many grandmothers turning to ghost?
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Where are the President's Armies of Gold?
The world knows the love that's in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
What should I care for the love of my loins?
You should have seen me reading Marx.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked.
America, how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does.
Millions of children alone in the rain!
Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine, Jiggling yr knees blankeyed in the rain, When it snows in yr nose you catch cold in yr brain.
It isn't enough for your heart to break because everybody's heart is broken now.
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction.
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone!
America when will we end the human war?
This is the flower of the World.
I think it was when I ran into Kerouac and Burroughs - when I was 17 - that I realized I was talking through an empty skull... I wasn't thinking my own thoughts or saying my own thoughts.
I have a new method of poetry. All you got to do is look over your notebooks. . . and think of anything that comes into your head, especially the miseries. . . . Then arrange in lines of two, three or four words each, don't bother about sentences . . .
Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness.
The weight of the world
is love.
I want people to bow as they see me and say he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of the creator.
...who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,who were expelled from the academies for crazy publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,...
Millions of children weeping in pain!
Now mind is clear
as a cloudless sky.
Democracy! Bah! When I hear that I reach for my feather boa!
Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger
Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen
In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served
Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your
Mercy.
America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
My own experience is that a certain kind of genius among students is best brought out in bed.
Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.
Will he later hallucinate
his gods?
Fortunately art is a community effort - a small but select community living in a spiritualized world endeavoring to interpret the wars and the solitudes of the flesh.
Whoever controls the media, the images, controls the culture.
With help from the American Civil Liberties Union, they were acquitted after a highly publicized trial, and the judge's ruling established a legal standard for publishing controversial books of redeeming social importance. ... presents a picture of a nightmare world.
The fact to which we have got to cling, as to a lifebelt, is that it is possible to be a normal decent person and yet be fully alive.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories